


district of bone

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [41]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bleach AU, Gen, Sportsfest 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: Three centuries later, he still presses hishaoriby hand, smooths out all the creases and cleans the tea stains, mends every little fray and rip with his own needle and thread. In the seventh month, he puts it on and makes a journey eastward to the 76th District of Rukongai.Swinging your blade out of a sense of duty is what a captain does.





	district of bone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sportsfest 2018 Bonus Round 4: Caps | [originally posted here](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/11674.html?thread=2081178#cmt2081178)

Three centuries later, he still presses his _haori_ by hand, smooths out all the creases and cleans the tea stains, mends every little fray and rip with his own needle and thread. In the seventh month, he puts it on and makes a journey eastward to the 76th District of Rukongai.

“They call it _Sakahone_ ,” he said to Aran, once, and Aran had remarked that he couldn’t imagine someone like Shinsuke growing up in the slums, that if not for his annual pilgrimage he would have guessed Shinsuke came from one of those families in Seireitei with a long, noble heritage.

Shinsuke showed him the scars on his fingertips, said that scions of noble families do not prick themselves on needles quite so much. Those old scars are tingling again as he crosses the boundary between zones, makes his way down an alley that smells of dried fish and ashes. Somewhere, a fire’s just gone out; somewhere else, it’s still smouldering. It’s too quiet.

He does not reach for his sword, not right away, not even when a man with a dagger skulks out from behind a broken lamppost and looks Shinsuke up and down, and he hears footsteps all around him. An orchestrated ambush.

“Captain Kita Shinsuke,” drawls the street thug, as he approaches Shinsuke. “So it’s true. You always come back for your granny’s birthday. How sentimental.”

“What do you want?” Shinsuke asks.

The thug crosses his arms and eyes him speculatively. “What do you think? Even the sandals on your feet are worth a fortune. Not to mention your _haori_.”

“Do you really think it wise to try and rob me?” Shinsuke says, hand going to the blade on his right hip, not because he is afraid but because he can feel it vibrating. When he draws it, he holds it one-handed and lets it glow angrily for a moment, lighting up the alleyway.

“Atsumu, calm down,” Shinsuke murmurs. The sword thrums again, subsides with a subdued hum.

“Hmm. Maybe it's suicide to try and rob you.” The thug grins. The shadows behind Shinsuke loom, draw back. “But your granny is a much easier target.”

_Let me out—let me—_

And Shinsuke, in a single breath, does; he drops his left hand to his hip, unsheathes his other sword and moves like the wind, a prayer on his lips as the curved blade rises to meet its other half. Where Atsumu is barbed impatience brimming with heat, Osamu burns with something deeper, harder to smother.

Shinsuke drops into a defensive stance and looks the thug straight in the eye. There is wildness there, there is sorrow, there is desperation. _Sakahone_ , they call this place where he grew up. _Reverse bone._ Flesh and blood turned inside out, a place where the old gods still hold sway.

“I know how cruel this district can be,” says Shinsuke. “I do not fight you out of hate. I am sorry.”

The twin _zanpakutou_ in his hands flare up, cold ice-grey flame against golden sparks, and Shinsuke does what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

Later, he takes his time walking home. He takes the long road, passing through forest, stopping at a shrine to light an offering.

It is sundown when he stops in front of a well-kept little house with a charm shaped like a fox’s tail hanging over the threshold, and he pushes the door open, careful to avoid the splinters where they’re breaking off.

“ _Obaa-chan_ ,” he calls, quietly.

His grandmother, seated at the table, looks up and smiles. “Shin-chan, _okaeri_. Did you have a peaceful journey?”

“More or less,” says Shinsuke, and sits in _seiza_ opposite her. He picks up the cup of tea waiting for him and takes a sip. There is a bloodstain on his clean _haori_ and a contented hum on one of his blades that sounds like a childhood lullaby.


End file.
